Screen Play (30 page)

In the light of a candle, I lay on the cot in the dark room, took out Don’s notepad, and read where I’d left off. On the fifth page, I read this inscription, almost scribbled as a doodle on the page.

Will reach Honolulu tomorrow. plans to contact H. once he reaches cell towers. thinks she’ll like Hawaii. wants to take her there.

I tried to maintain a grip, but tears poured down my face in silent streams. So much of our communication had come to me in written form, I felt grateful for one more message from Luke. I blew out the candle and lay back down on the cot. I turned again to prayer, knowing how God hears each one, from Chicago beds to Tarajuro cots.

Early the next morning Eve and Daniel Walbry accompanied us to the airfield. After Mr. Hawthorne refueled the plane, they said a prayer for Luke and me and sent us on our way. Minutes later, we were airborne, back over expansive blue waters.

“Well, at least we know something we didn’t yesterday. He had it in mind to make a stop before heading out to open sea that night. Your mate’s plane may have been outmoded, but he was a sensible flier.”

“So if you were leaving on Luke’s flight path, and you knew it would be getting dark in four or five hours, where would you plan to stop?”

“That’s hard to say with so many small islands, but I’d say one where I knew there was a reliable airfield. If it were me, I’d have shot for Sparrow Island.”

“How soon can we get there?”

“By ten.”

Hawthorne lowered a visor, shielding his eyes from the brilliant morning sun. I looked around the inside of the plane, our home for much of the day before and presumably this one as well. Hawthorne had removed all of the unnecessary seats but one, and in their place lay two long pontoon skis.

If only pontoon skis had been fastened to Luke’s plane,
I thought.
What a pointless omission.

“Are you hungry, Mr. Hawthorne?” I asked, wanting to change the subject in my own mind.

“As a matter of fact, I am hungry, and as long as we’re going to be spending all day in a small airplane, you can call me Joel.”

I unbuckled my seat belt and climbed in the rear of the plane to reach my suitcase. I unzipped the clasp and pulled out a box of Super Protein bars and two water bottles. Returning to my seat, I gave one of each to Hawthorne.

“Oh, that’s beautiful. This is fast becoming as luxurious as a commercial airline. Pull down that compartment door panel behind you,” he said, gesturing over my shoulder.

I twisted a black knob and opened a flat panel at the rear of the cockpit. Behind the green metal door I found a coffeemaker.

“Do you know how to make coffee? There’s water in storage back there, coffee, filters.”

We ate in silence, sipping hot coffee at twenty thousand feet and learning how to spend extended periods of time in each other’s company.

“Listen, why don’t you fill me in on what we’re doing out here,” Hawthorne said after finishing up his protein bar. “I don’t mind flying you from island to island because as long as I’m up in the air, I’m making money, but are you thinking we’re going to find your mate alive somewhere on one of these small islands?”

“Luke’s plane has gone down. I can’t leave it at that. I love him too much to not know what happened.”

“Right, but you’re talking about searching at least a thousand square miles of open water, hundreds of islands, four days after who knows what happened. I’m not trying to be a pessimist, but at the same time I have to be honest. Your mate’s best chances for survival are that he had some sort of flotation device aboard or that he was picked up by some passing ship, as unlikely as that is, that’s making its way to Hawaii.”

“They would have communicated that information to authorities.”

“Probably the best we can hope for is that he somehow survived and is floating out at sea. But the only way I can do this is if we treat your search and rescue operation with some sense and realistic expectations, and not like we’re a couple of Pollyannas. Luke may be fine, but I’ve got to tell you, it’s more likely that he had engine trouble in deep sea and had to ditch the plane. If the coast guard hasn’t found his ELT, that’s another clue; it means it’s buried too deep beneath the water.”

“Mr. Hawthorne—Joel—I used to be shy about saying this kind of thing, but I have faith that we’re out here for a reason. I’d like to believe that reason is because Luke’s alive. I don’t know what good it does preparing ourselves for the worst every mile we fly. I have two more days left to search, and I want to follow the leads we have.”

Hawthorne’s face soured.

“See, I don’t like the sound of that, love. Your heart’s in the right place, but not your head. You’re working off nothing more tangible than a lucky four-leaf clover.”

“Hardly, Joel. I’m working with something far more meaningful and powerful.”

“And would you mind telling me what makes you think your faith will make any difference?”

I started at the beginning, telling Hawthorne my story about Bella and Christmas in Chicago, New Year’s Eve in New York, and how the journey I’d been on inspired me to believe. Hawthorne listened, not because he believed any part of it that involved God, but because we were spending all morning aboard a small airplane with nothing else to do.

Joel Hawthorne was a smart, sensible man. When he forecast our reaching Sparrow Island by 10 a.m., he was right. By 10:02, we were kicking parking blocks under the Cessna’s wheels on the landing strip.

A few islanders gathered around us. We asked if anyone had information about Luke’s plane. No one knew anything, so we walked down a well-beaten slope toward the ocean to speak to a group of men fishing on the beach.

Malau Jonah was a local islander who spoke good English. Not only had he seen Luke land on Sparrow Island, but his cousin on a neighboring island had seen the plane crash.

“He told me, uh, the plane went down into the water,” he said. With his rough, dark hands, he pantomimed the angle of decent, a sharp forty-five degree fall into the Pacific. “Were there any survivors?” I asked Malau. “Did the pilot survive?”

“The pilot killed. No survivors.”

I stepped back from Malau Jonah and the circle of fishermen telling Hawthorne the news. Luke was gone, that was all that mattered. I’d been holding out hope that God had a plan and an answer for us this morning, a way to bring Luke back that might involve the island and be something only He could do. But now the day only felt hot, and Sparrow Island seemed only a fishermen’s beach far away from LA.

“Did he say where the plane went down?” Hawthorne asked.

“Talk to my cousin Boli. He lives on Botuvita.”

“Is there an airstrip on Botuvita?” Hawthorne asked. I was out of questions, my reservoir of hope cracked and draining.

“Yes, an airfield. It’s not far from here by plane.”

Hawthorne walked Malau and some of the men back to the airstrip and pulled out our maps from the cockpit so they could show us Botuvita, confirming the location. Hawthorne was ready to return to the sky.

“Come on, Harper. Be strong, girl. This mystery is coming together a lot faster than I expected. We’ll get on to Botuvita and find Malau’s cousin Boli. He’s an eyewitness. He can tell us what happened, and we can get on our way to Hawaii.”

Having the pieces all fall into place excited Hawthorne. I walked around to the front of the plane and climbed in, buckling my seat beat, leaning my head against the window. I knew the truth now: Luke was gone. I could feel my body bending toward the inevitable pull of mourning.

After refueling, Hawthorne stayed outside the airplane giving me the privacy to grieve. He didn’t respect my faith, but he had the decency to respect my sorrow.

After a few minutes, he climbed in, and we taxied down to the end of the runway, still damp with yesterday’s rain. I glanced through the cockpit window into the eyes of islanders, men walking back to the beach to fish, women with their babies in shoulder wraps. They seemed to recognize grief, even in the eyes of a stranger.

~
Thirty-four
~

Our maps showed dozens of small islands dotted throughout the South Pacific. Hawthorne told me many of the islands were primitive environments, sparsely populated, and absent of any modern technology. News travels from place to place by word of mouth, by boat. Family ties are strong. Islanders feast on tuna caught in nets and fruit harvested from the jungle. Modernity had little affected these places, except for the addition of landing strips to welcome planes bringing outsiders with supplies and medicine, and stories of the complicated world far from the shores of paradise.

We landed on Botuvita just as the rains descended, turning the airfield into slick mud. Hawthorne and I climbed from the plane thirty yards from a shelter and were soaked to the bone by the time we reached it. The sight of our plane circling the island brought islanders to the shelter. We were welcomed and offered a sweet papaya-like juice as refreshment.

“What brings you to Botuvita?” Chief Tonga asked.

“A man named Malau Jonah on Sparrow Island told us the story of a plane crash,” Hawthorne explained. “He said we should speak to his cousin Boli. This woman is a friend of the pilot who was flying that plane.”

“Yes. Boli. He is here on this island. He will speak to you.”

When the rainstorm ended an hour later, a group of us marched through the jungle toward the village. We met Boli and the fifty or so islanders and were treated to a welcoming feast. I wanted desperately to interview Boli about what he knew, but first we had to shake the hands of every man, woman, and child on the island, as was their custom.

“You have come to Botuvita to ask Boli the story of the airplane,” Chief Tonga finally said. He called to Boli, asking what he knew, then translated the story for us.

“My cousin and I met twenty nights ago when a fishing party left the island to go to Taki. For days we fished separately, his men on the west side of the island, my boat and friends on the far side of the island. While we were in our boat, I see a white plane with red lines flying lower and lower to the sea. There is no landing strip on Taki. The plane flew around the island but crashed into the sea close to shore. We paddled to the wreckage, but there was only the smell of fuel and a piece of the plane’s tail floating in the water.”

“What did you do with the tail of the aircraft?” Hawthorne asked. The chief spoke to Boli.

“We pulled the tail from the water and brought it up to the beach.”

“Could it still be there?”

“Yes.”

Hawthorne turned to me with an idea of how to settle our pursuit of Luke’s story.

“Harper, we don’t know conclusively if this is Luke’s plane or not. The timing is close, but if we could locate that scrap of tail, it could have a serial number, and we can make a positive ID.”

We thanked Boli, the islanders, and Chief Tonga for their hospitality, and they walked with us back to the airfield late in the afternoon. Hawthorne and some of the men from the island removed the pontoons he’d stored, preparing the plane to make the water landing on Taki that Luke was denied.

It was late again, our tour of South Pacific islands eating up the daylight hours. Hawthorne was ready to be done with this trip but driven to finish his job out of respect for a fallen fellow pilot. We were both tired when he brought the craft down beautifully in the water, as graceful as a swan dropping onto a lake, and taxied up to the beach.

I took my bag this time, lifting it out of the stowaway area and checking my cell phone for service. It was dead.

“You’re not likely to get reception for that thing out here, love,” Hawthorne said. “Occasionally reception can bounce off the water, or pick up a signal from passing ships, but nothing predictable or regular.”

Hawthorne secured the plane to the shore with rigging, and we hiked up the only trail that led away from the beach. It would be dark in a couple of hours.

The family tribe of the Taki greeted us, offering me a night’s rest in a hut I’d share with a family of six. Hawthorne slept in a separate shelter with some of the men. I prayed for sleep and found it quickly.

I awoke the next morning with a stiff neck to the sight of a three-year-old boy clamoring for his mother’s attention. I felt a deeper ache, not knowing how I’d cope with going back to Los Angeles to resume work as Joseph Hagen’s new girl. I prayed the shortest prayer, one from my dark days in Chicago:
God help me.

I stepped outside the hut to wander under the umbrella of an overcast sky. A fire for cooking burned in a clearing between the huts. Hawthorne was gone, probably checking his plane again,
his
one true love. I saw no point in rushing our island objective. We would talk to the chief again soon, tell him of our purpose, and ask to see the wreckage.

A short stump near the fire beckoned me, and I fell onto it, lacking the energy to do little else. From behind me I heard a voice.

“You are cold?” I turned to see the chief standing there. He was an older man, blind, his face as radiant as an angel’s. I looked him over, lost in a world of grief.

“No, the fire’s warm,” I said, turning back toward the campfire. “I’m not cold.”

“I am very happy today. Happy to see you.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering if I should stand out of respect but lacking the strength to rise.

“But you are sad. Why are you sad?”

“I have lost someone very special to me. I cannot see him again, and my heart is sad.”

“Do you have medicine?”

“There’s no medicine for this. Only time can help.”

“Do you have medicine?” he asked again. I reached for a stick to poke the fire.

“No, I have no medicine.”

“Do you have medicine on the plane?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, turning to look back at the chief so he could understand. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and set it on my leg. Hawthorne appeared from the brush trail, sweaty from work and the long, hot walk.

“Have you asked him?” Hawthorne said.

“Not yet.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s see what we came here to see and get back on our way.”

Hawthorne was impatient, but then again he was right. We’d chased down all our leads, and our time for searching had come to an end.

“Do you have medicine?” the chief asked Hawthorne.

“Why do you need medicine?”

I powered on my cell phone for no other reason than to escape the nonsensical conversation. It powered up and a moment later vibrated in my hand. The screen noted three missed messages. I was amazed. Hawthorne had been right; there
were
times you could get a signal off an island.

“There is … sick. The man is sick here,” said the chief.

I pushed the button to retrieve my messages, expecting to see a text from Sydney or Avril or even Joseph asking for an update. The first message, however, sent shivers down my spine.

Halp

“One of your people is sick?” I heard Hawthorne say.

“No, not my people.
Your people.
”

I shot up off the stump, knocking over the log, and it rolled into the fire.

“Where is he?” I shouted.

“The man is sleeping on the hill.”

My eyes roamed the hillside, searching for a narrow break in the thick foliage. There were hills everywhere, thickets of rain forest, dense overgrown jungle. Where? Which hill? Then I saw it—the corner of a building higher on the hillside reflecting the sun’s rays off its tin roof. I sprinted toward the building.

“Harper, wait!”

Following a winding trail no wider than the tire of a wheelbarrow, I stumbled and fell once, twice, three times but kept on climbing. I followed a twisting stretch of footpaths that curved and curled up and around the slope. Finally, the path widened as I turned. I could now see the open door of the bamboo hut, its tin roof looking like the tin man’s coat rusting in the woods.

I slowed to a walk, afraid and hopeful at the same time about what I might find inside. I poked my head in the doorway, my feet firmly planted on the other side of the threshold. My beloved was lying on a plank on the floor, his head bandaged with a bloody cloth, his feet swollen and his eyes closed.

I crept into the hut, alone with him, and knelt down beside him.

“Luke?” I said, softly, watching his eyelids for movement. How long had he been here without medical care?

His eyes opened, perhaps from a dream, and I waited to see recognition in them. He spoke my name, “Harper,” in a sound less than a whisper. I bent down and kissed him.

Luke McCafferty was alive.